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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679669">Stay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisstheapex/pseuds/kisstheapex'>kisstheapex</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rammstein</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Eventual Till/OFC, F/M, Slow Burn, Songfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:49:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679669</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisstheapex/pseuds/kisstheapex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sabine Connolly has been assigned by her editors to write a long-form piece on the 2019 summer Rammstein stadium tour of Europe, and is on the road with the band for the duration of a few weeks. She quickly realizes that there's a lot more to this band then most people think, including the media-illusive frontman Till Lindemann. </p><p>This is a songfic, with each chapter being inspired in some way by a particular song. I'll make sure to put a playlist together so you can follow along. Rated M for eventual smut, but be prepared for seriously slow burn!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Till Lindemann/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Never Enough</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey all! Its been YEARS since I've written anything other than semi-formal work stuff, so please forgive me while I get back into the swing of fiction writing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A fool's crutch won't set me free</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Too much is never enough </em>
</p><p><em> It's never enough for me </em> <em> <br/></em> <em> <br/></em> <b>Too Much is Never Enough - Bob Moses</b></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Her fingers tapped anxiously against the clipboard, bottom lip tucked beneath her top teeth in solidarity with the rest of her nerves. The first day on any new tour and with any new band was nerve wracking - especially when they were of this calibre and with a catalog of Rammstein’s magnitude - but the anxiety of it all in some way was an expected familiarity that only meant that she <em> had </em> made the right choice of continuing with this sort of assignment.</p><p>There was something about being a journalist assigned to cover a band over a particular stretch of touring that was both enthralling and nerve wracking -- generally, the nerves came from wanting to make sure the story was produced correctly and did the band justice, especially when the record company was fronting a good portion of the bill for the sake of good North American press. The excitement always stemmed from being able to see the inner-workings of such a large tour, and the cogs of the machine that produced a spectacular live show -- she always felt like she was really able to see a group better this way, and be able to write a piece much more effectively than just a one-off interview.</p><p>Rammstein wasn’t the first massive band that Sabine had been asked to cover for Loud Sound magazine in her ten years with the publication. Previously, she’d been on the road for an extended portion of tours with bands like Foo Fighters, Radiohead, and most recently Slipknot, all of which were incredibly different genres with incredibly different styles of live show. Rammstein she knew was on a whole other level -- pyrotechnics, a multi-generational international following, and even bigger on-stage personalities meant she was set for a whole new level of storytelling. And that, alone, was exciting.</p><p>But of course, with that level of excitement came an even higher level of expectations. That was where any nerves or anxiety she currently held came from. </p><p>She looked down at the papers on the clipboard, flipping through the pages of information from the magazine editors and tour management, and various hand-written jot notes in both the margins and footers detailing her own thoughts on separate pieces. With a collective sigh she took a quick glance at her watch to confirm the time - 10:22 am - knowing that if she was going to get this story off the ground and make a good impression on the band and management that being prompt would probably be for the best. After all, the German stereotype of timeliness existed for a reason.</p><p>Standing up from the edge of the hotel bed Sabine placed the clipboard down, grabbing her backpack from the desk and rummaging through it for a ball cap. Tying her medium-length auburn hair in a ponytail, she took a moment before placing the cap on her head to make sure she looked presentable and didn’t need any final touch-ups before hitting the road to the venue. She wasn’t into wearing too heavy of makeup, but needed a solid base to feel  what she described as “human” -- just a simple, thin layer of a mid-coverage tinted creme, a good mascara, and a small winged eyeliner was an easy daily look that could mask sleepless nights spent basking in the light of a laptop screen. She laughed, noting that while the dark circles under her eyes were still there they weren’t horrifically obvious; she looked like she had at least gotten a few hours of decent sleep the night before, so not a complete zombie. Probably best to not look totally sleep deprived before meeting with one of the biggest names in metal -- a good first impression for the next month on the road with them was going to be an ideal step in the right direction.</p><p>She placed the ball cap on her head, tucking the ponytail into the opening in the back and smoothing out the flyaways as she did so. Grabbing the clipboard and sliding it into her backpack, slinging the pack over her shoulder and doing one final mirror check, she let out a sigh.</p><p>“Right, let’s get this show on the road.” A quick self-affirmation, and she headed towards the hotel room door.</p><p>----------</p><p>Sabine had been right about the German need to be exactly on time; the minute she showed up to the Olympiastadion she was ushered into the press area for pre-show interviews and setup without too much pomp and circumstance, but with an urgency of being down-to-the-minute. </p><p>Sound check had just finished and there were quite a few journalists waiting for their scheduled interview times - she had assumed correctly that the German press would be given the opportunity to go first, given that this was a “home country” show and the local crowd was expected to be absolutely huge. Knowing that it would be a while before she was scheduled to be introduced to the band she would be spending the next 32 days with, she decided to drop her bag at a press table, set up her laptop, and then head out exploring the venue for some additional context. </p><p>Over 120,000 people were expected each night at the two sold-out Munich shows, and the stadium was certainly impressive even without that many bodies crammed in it from floor to ceiling. The stage setup was impressive -- a massive center column with the band’s logo ready to be lit up at the very peak, with four complimentary speaker towers surrounding it and spires where flames were likely to shoot out mid-song. It leered over the stadium like a menacing medieval castle, with prominent palisades and a brightly lit main stage.</p><p>From the distance of the farthest balcony, Sabine could see the stage techs busily preparing the stage floor audio cables and pyrotechnics, making sure everything was perfectly organized for the night ahead. It was still late morning, but people had already been waiting outside for the doors to open -- these fans were eager, and ready, for what was likely to be one hell of a concert experience.</p><p>She took her phone out to snap a few quick photos for later reference - a photographer wouldn’t be joining her until later in the tour, and even then only for a few days - before making some quick notes in her notepad on the spanse of the stadium and the expected attendance.</p><p>Satisfied, Sabine turned around to head back to the media area, her phone suddenly buzzing in her hand with an email from the publisher:</p><p>
  <em> Sab, </em>
</p><p>We’ll need you to have some sort of social media preview into my inbox by the end of the two Munich shows. Make sure you get something that will produce an ultra-clickable headline! I need this piece to go huge.<br/><br/>- E</p><p>Of course, Eric would want to check in with her -- he was as nosy as they came, but that’s part of what made them good friends (and good journalists). Even though Eric was her editor and by extension her boss, he knew her better than anyone else; they spent a decent amount of time outside of work talking music, politics, and whatever else came to mind, generally discussing all the world’s chaos and problems over Saturday night drinks. At any other time he would’ve planned to visit on a tour this long to check-in with his star longform feature writer, but with his wife about to have their first child he was housebound in California. It was a bit disappointing that Sabine wouldn’t be able to have E join her for a few days on the road, but she was excited for his family to be growing -- he deserved it. She grinned, reading the email over again and quietly laughing off his nosiness while she walked.</p><p>With a <em> thud </em> she nearly fell over - she’d walked straight into the back of a rather tall, rather broad man. Her phone flew out of her hands and skittered across the floor.</p><p>“Oooof, SHIT,  I’m SO sorry….” She scrambled to look into the face of the person she’d nearly fallen over, but he was already moving to pick up her phone and she didn’t get much of a chance to see him.</p><p>“Ah, no no, no problem,” The man replied in accented English, grabbing the (thankfully unsmashed) iPhone and offering it back to her. “Are you okay?”</p><p>Sabine had to maintain her composure seeing the man’s face -- she had just careened into TIll Lindemann, frontman of the very band she was about to spend a month with. <em> Great first impression, dumbass </em>, she quipped inwardly, her cheeks flushing slightly as she gingerly took the phone from Till’s outstretched hand.</p><p>“Other than a bit of a bruised ego, I’m okay,” She cleared her throat, trying to put the professional face back on, raising the phone in a gesture of thanks. “Thank you for picking this up. I’m so sorry.”</p><p>He studied her for a moment, green-blue eyes landing on her ID badge. “Ah, <em> Journalistin </em>,” He nodded, almost in self-assurance, “I haven’t seen you before?” For a moment she interpreted his words as accusatory, but then remembering that English was not his first language, quickly reprimanded herself for just forgetting context. He HADN’T met her before.</p><p>“Probably not - but you’ll see me again,” A laugh escaped her lips and the redness began leaving her cheeks: journalist mode, engage. “Sabine Connelly, Loud Sound magazine out of California.” She extended a hand and was met firmly by his own in a strong, but kind handshake.</p><p>Till’s eyes lit up then and a small smile formed on the corner of his lips. “Ahhhh yes, you are the one pestering us for a few weeks,” Nothing like a little jab at the press to make her feel like her job was only going to get a little more challenging. It was innocent enough, though - she laughed it off. “It’s nice to meet you - I am Till.”</p><p>“Not the most ideal way to meet for the first time but either way, my pleasure….or accident.” She shrugged, feeling much more relaxed now that he hadn’t turned full-on diva when she ran into him (and God knows, she’d seen that before from leading men).</p><p>“Should you not be doing interviews with less clumsy <em> Journalistin </em>?” Sabine recalled, noticing that it was close to HER time to be interviewing the band -- shouldn’t Till have been in other interviews now?</p><p>“Ah, no. We split that up often so we can get more done at once,” Till answered, placing his hands in the pockets of his dark-wash pants. “But it is my time to do some next. Come, I am assuming you are heading this way too.” He tilted his head in the direction of the media centre, starting to walk in that direction. Sabine nodded and followed at a matching pace.</p><p>He was tall, but so was she - at just over six feet she was easily able to keep up with his long strides. Sometimes men found her height and stature intimidating, but Till seemed quite at peace with it. He continued to walk forward, hands in his pockets.</p><p>“I think you’re interviewing with me next,” Sabine spoke after a few moments, “At least now that awkward first handshake is over with.”  </p><p>Till turned to look at her with the same soft smile, “I generally prefer to be introduced by awkward handshake over being run in to,” The soft smile turned into more of a childish grin, “But I can make exceptions.”</p><p>Sabine returned the statement with a laugh. “I know how to make an entrance, Mr Lindemann!”</p><p>He cocked a brow at her, removing one hand from his pocket and waving it dismissively. “Till, please. No need for that. I am not a teacher.” </p><p>Message received. Sabine nodded in agreement and they rounded the corner to the media centre. Till dismissed himself to let her grab her things and get prepared, so he could go meet with the other band members that would be joining the interview. </p><p>When Till left, Sabine let out a large exhale -- in all her years of working in the media she had been part of MANY awkward encounters, but none quite like that. She was thankful he wasn’t arrogant or rude about it, but as far as she was concerned she certainly had not made the best first impression. Pulling out that pesky phone again, she opened up the text conversation with Eric, trying to type up her blunder a few times before finally settling on a message:</p><p>
  <em> Nothing like running face-first into Till Lindemann to make a great impression :| </em>
</p><p>He saw the message within a few seconds and quickly typed out a reply.</p><p>
  <em> ERIC: Wow, you sure know how to start things up. Don’t fuck up! :P </em>
</p><p>Sabine laughed at the reply, feeling a bit more at ease -- E had a way of doing that for her, even in a challenging scenario. She locked the phone and shoved it into her pack before grabbing a voice recorder for the interview and taking a few deep breaths. Initial questions in hand from her notebook, she headed off to the interview room as the publicist called her name in a thick accent.</p><p>The first of what was going to be many days, and likely many conversations with Rammstein, was about to begin.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Hanging On</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for the kudos and likes! Hopefully my slow-burn style isnt TOO boring for you :P</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Walk to work on wild feet<br/>
</em> <em> Get to the back door<br/>
</em> <em> Look around then turn the key<br/>
</em> <em> Turn all the lights on<br/>
</em> <em> Take down the chairs and make things neat </em> <em><br/>
</em><br/>
<b>The Tragically Hip -- Coffee Girl<br/>
</b></p><p> </p><p>Sabine sat back in her hotel room later that evening, mulling over her notes from both the earlier interview and from the show itself. The laptop's cursor blinked against the stark white backdrop of a word processing document as she searched for the right words and approach. There was a great deal of challenge in starting a longform piece so early in the process, but she always found that putting thoughts on theoretical paper as soon as possible led to a more thorough article.</p><p>Hovering fingers began typing, getting things rolling as fragments of thought formed into sentences.</p><p>
  <em> Crowded at the heart of Munich, a city so contrasting between historical and traditional Germany and a modern metropolitan centre, myself and 120,000 other people crammed into the Olympiastadion for what has become a new staple German export. Forget about beer and lederhosen -- Rammstein is the poster child of a modern Germany. </em>
</p><p>She paused, picking up her pen and tapping it pensively against the faux hardwood table top, taking a sip of the fresh espresso she’d brewed shortly before -- thank god for proper espresso machines in Munich hotel rooms.</p><p>
  <em> I sat down with half of Rammstein - Christoph Schneider, Flake Lorenz, and Till Lindemann - on the first night of two sold-out Munich shows. There couldn’t have been a more contrasting group of personalities in the room: steadfast drummer Scheider, who dropped the moniker of “Doom” in recent years since becoming a family man in favour of his surname; quirky keyboardist Lorenz whose clear disdain for media appearances and interviews (especially English ones) seemed to subside the more his bandmates carried the conversation; and broody - yet surprisingly un-sinister - frontman Lindemann with his intimidating appearance and reputation for the dark and dominating.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The earliest parts of our interview focused on how they were feeling about playing such large stadiums in their home country -- all three agreed that the experience was something they could never have dreamed of as young, eager musicians growing up in East Germany.  </em>
</p><p>Sabine referred back to her notes, wondering whether it would be worthwhile taking it any further with writing the story down that night or to just wait until the second show to get a fuller picture. The conversation was still fresh in her head but so was the throbbing and ringing inside her ears from such a loud concert - not just musically, but with fireworks and pyrotechnics nearly blowing her eardrums out from where she had watched the show. </p><p>With a sigh she closed the laptop screen and finished up the espresso, grabbing a pack of cheap German cigarettes from her pack and heading out onto the balcony of the hotel room. Smoking seemed to be the one bad habit that came out any time she had one of these long-form pieces to write; normally she wouldn’t touch the damn things. It just seemed like these long assignments needed to be fueled by something, and there was only enough alcohol to go around -- plus, a cigarette had significantly less in terms of immediate and next-day consequences. </p><p>She took a few deep drags after lighting the smoke, letting out long exhales while leaning against the railing of the balcony. Munich’s skyline was much more soft and gentle than those of California -- there weren’t skyscrapers interfering with the stars like there were back home, but instead historical buildings intermixed with modern office buildings and hi-rise complexes. The air was cleaner, too, with a crispness borne from the mountain range in the distance, peaks kissing the inky black sky only slightly lit up by the city below.</p><p>Even though it was June, the air was still cool. A gentle breeze tugged at the loose hem of her t-shirt, allowing a small draft to touch her skin - she shivered, goosebumps starting. Guess that was enough of this half-assed nightcap.</p><p>Back into the hotel room she went, grabbing a hoodie off the top of the clothes pile in her suitcase and throwing it on. Looking towards the small desk, where her computer sat waiting patiently for her to continue her work, she considered working for a moment before realizing the inspiration still wasn’t there to keep on.</p><p>Her head still ached and pulsed like the beating of a drum. She had no idea how any of the other media or crew members that had been invited to the afterparty could have sustained it -- inevitably loud music would’ve continued long into the night past the final encore. There was nothing but wild stories circulating about these parties - gorgeous women, plentiful booze, the occasional hard drug dropped haphazardly on central tables for all partygoers - and she intended to avoid them as best she could.</p><p>Sabine <em> did </em>love to have a good time, but a party with a bunch of drunk, horny fangirls trying to score with their favourite band member wasn’t necessarily appealing. She’d seen it too much, and seen the inevitable tears after -- there wasn’t much to literally write home about, in either circumstance.</p><p>Instead, she’d politely declined the invite the band extended to her post interview, mentioning she preferred to keep to working instead. Christoph and Flake in particular had a certain sparkle in their eyes when they laughed back at her, while Till sat pensively with just a hint of a grin drawn in the corners of his lips. She supposed they liked the idea of seeing journalists in their most drunk, vulnerable moments instead of the much more normal other way around. Sabine scoffed at the thought, closing the laptop’s screen decisively - she was done for the night. </p><p>It was only 1:00 am, so surely the hotel bar would still be open and serving. Maybe then she’d either come up with some semblance of a direction to take her piece, or just get tired enough to finally get some sleep.</p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>The hotel she’d been placed in was rather fancy -- apparently most of the band and crew were here as well. In an effort to keep her close to the action Eric had insisted the tour management have Sabine booked into the same hotels as possible, and forward the bills on to the magazine. It was an interesting arrangement, but given that Eric had a way with words, it was no surprise he’d been able to make the arrangements. One of the classiest historical hotels in Munich wasn’t nearly what Sabine had expected when she arrived, but her artistic mind certainly appreciated the vibe of it all.</p><p>Even the hotel bar had a classic, late 19th century feel to it. By no means was this <em> old </em> by European standards, but it still stuck out as particularly beautiful. Rich, regal colours mixed in with gold plated accents and dark stained wood finishes were accompanied by paintings styled on the old masters, depicting other historical landmarks within the region. It smelt like a museum, mixed with the earthy odour of aged oak barrels and the faded essence of tobacco smoke from years gone by. The old oil lamps had been converted to electrical - now housing mid-yellow incandescents - on a dimmer to add to the atmosphere, but also allow for the daytime function of the bar as a casual restaurant to have some modern taste.</p><p>She took a seat at the old oak-topped bar, marvelling for a moment at the luxurious finish that protected the strong personality and graining of the wood underneath. As she sat, the bartender looked at her with a smile and a quick: “<em> Guten Abend….zu trinken </em>?”</p><p>Her conversational German was….marginal at best. She did well enough to understand the basics and find her way around, but for a moment she stared blankly - no, awkwardly - at the barkeep, who patiently waited for her reply.</p><p>“Oh uh, gin and tonic….<em> bitte </em> ,” The accent was <em> bad </em>, but she tried. </p><p>“Ah, American,” The bartender quickly switched languages. She probably would never get over the bluntness of Europeans. “If you would prefer? Or, <em> Deutsch sprechen </em>?”</p><p>Sabine laughed, “I’ll spare you too much suffering.”</p><p>The older man produced a gin and tonic in an old style rocks glass and gently set it upon an old cork coaster. </p><p>“<em> Danke </em>,” Sabine raised the glass in thank-you and took a quick sip, the bitterness of the tonic water but the soothing smoothness of the juniper creating a pleasant feeling in her mouth. The bartender nodded in acknowledgement before moving to the other side of the bar to serve a few of the band’s crew who had also just arrived, leaving her to people watch and observe.</p><p>She guessed this meant that the afterparty was over, or at least the venue had finally been cleaned up and cleared, ready for the second show the next day. She took another sip of the cocktail and watched as more people brandishing Rammstein crew badges walked past the lobby door. Most looked to be heading to the elevators and their subsequent rooms, but a few walked into the bar area to wind down for the night. She watched lazily, nothing but a curious observer, her ID lanyard long ago left on her hotel room’s bedside table. It was unlikely any of the crew would pay attention or even notice her at this point - which, frankly, didn’t bother her at all.</p><p>She recognized Richard as he walked into the room and took off his light jacket, hanging it on the back of a barstool a few seats down from her before speaking quickly - and incoherently, to her ears - to the bartender, who almost instantly produced a tall glass of red wine. He didn’t appear overly intoxicated or even all that buzzed, but instead rather sedate, something Sabine didn’t quite expect based on the man’s on-stage persona.</p><p>Sabine quickly looked away, not wanting to be caught staring, but observing<em> was </em> an important part of her job. Too late, though -- Richard met her gaze. He blissfully didn’t make it any more awkward than it needed to be and offered her a quick smile, before sitting down and turning his attention to the wine.</p><p>“Good show tonight?” Sabine offered plainly, but with genuine interest. He wasn’t giving off a vibe that she’d interrupted too much, and she’d yet to meet the man formally. </p><p>Richard finished a gulp of his wine, placing the glass down with a satisfied deep breath before nodding at her. “Yes, very much. Thank you for asking,” He turned the rotating seat of the stool to face her a bit more directly, “What’s your name?”</p><p>Sabine thought for a moment, theorizing he probably thought she was some crazed fan waiting for one of the band members to show up for an autograph or selfie. He was trying to be polite and get her what he thought she wanted quickly, so he could carry on with his night.</p><p>“Sabine Connelly,” She replied, “The journalist from Loud Sound.” She decided to clear any preconceived notions about who she was quickly. The last thing she wanted was another awkward encounter with any of them that would potentially ruin any sort of run at a good, strong story. </p><p>“Oh!” Richard, his brows raised, then fake-chided with a smirk on his face. “The same one that nearly knocked over Till and left us without a singer early this afternoon?”</p><p>So much for not making it awkward...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Burn Card</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks again for the kudos, friendos! Let me know your thoughts so far and I'll see if I can keep spitting out chapters fairly regularly. This is a shorter one, but I'm hoping it gets us moving in the right direction :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah from your one-eyed-jacks to your rolled up trips<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I'll be gone when your pocket aces flip<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And it ain't no river that needs a dam<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Just a slow and steady drift</span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  
  <em></em>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <b>The Barr Brothers -- Burn Card</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Glad I made such a good impression,” Sabine replied with just a hint of snark, taking a drink of her gin and raising a brow at the guitar player quizzically. “What else did he have to tell you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry Richard - You’re not getting me that easy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As embarrassed as she might feel internally, she wasn’t going to let him have the satisfaction quite that fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pretended like he was deep in thought, searching for some sort of quick quip to throw back at her. It was well past midnight though - his sense of humour wasn’t as sharp as it normally was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said you asked….</span>
  <em>
    <span>interesting</span>
  </em>
  <span> questions, for once. A bit outside the box, I think was how he described it?” That wasn’t quite what she was expecting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh really?” Sabine replied, Placing an elbow on the bar and resting her chin in her palm, playing along. “Tell me more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard hesitated, some tension . “Wait a second….are you trying to interview </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughed, waving her other hand dismissively. “Let’s consider this off the record and reconvene </span>
  <em>
    <span>for </span>
  </em>
  <span>the record at a later time. I’m off the clock for the night and enjoying a drink. It's late, and I’m tired. My ears are still ringing from that show.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned back into the back of the barstool and smirked at her. “Too loud for you?” There was a vein of arrogance in his voice as he chastised her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” She returned quickly, now crossing one arm over the other after taking another drink. “But generally the media doesn’t get put right in front of a massive speaker tower. If you didn’t want us there you really should just say so.” The gin and tonic must have been strong enough to ever-so-slightly liberate her normally reserved approach to first conversations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard was halfway through his glass of wine and ordered another when the bartender passed by. Sabine’s German comprehension was decent enough to also ascertain he’d ordered another of whatever it was she was having, too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I guess I’m in for a bit longer of a night than I thought, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she mused, finishing off the first gin and tonic and setting the glass carefully aside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you’ve been in this business as long as we have, you pick your battles wisely,” Richard replied with a wink, thanking the bartender as he delivered another beverage to each of them. “It isn’t that we don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>reporters - we just aren’t slaves to your every beck and call. We do our own thing, and always have.” He relished the first sip of his second glass of malbec before continuing, taking his time in explaining their rather bold position on media and press coverage. “I suppose that is why Till, Flake, and Christoph were so interested in telling the rest of us about their interview experience with you. You didn’t ask the same bullshit we hear day in, day out, no matter the city or country.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pondered that for a moment, thinking about the interview from earlier in the day. She had stuck to a few basics to get the conversation rolling, but one of her favourite things was to let her interviewees direct the conversation - far too often the journalist took the helm and steered things in an almost predictable direction, asking the same questions from every press junket the band had seen before. Sabine didn’t like to fall into that bubble if she could avoid it, especially on these long-form pieces; she needed to build rapport with her subjects, not frustrate them with every interaction, and that was the key to her style of journalism.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had talked about quite a few things, ranging from the writing process for the new album to how each of them spent their time when not “working”. They touched on different aspects of tour life that brought about challenges and the way things had evolved over the 20+ years the band had been on the road together and talked about their favourite cities in the world for certain foods or cultural experiences; it felt more like a casual conversation as opposed to a formal chat. The thirty minutes allotted to Sabine for her interview went by too quickly - as it always seemed to - just as she seemed to scratch the surface of their experiences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm,” She produced a soft hum, mulling in the compliment for a few moments, “I don’t like to play by the rules. Life is too boring for that. Plus, no one wants to read the same recycled crap -- I know you have a lot more to say that people would find some interest in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you say so,” Shrugged Richard with a gentle laugh, “Either way, those three were rather intrigued by it. They might even put it forward to not have you near the tower speakers for the next show.” There returned that devious grin again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine returned the laugh, “I’ll take that as a true compliment then, and I’ll raise a glass to preserving my hearing for at least a few more years.” She raised the high-ball for a toast, “Here’s to the group of you allowing me to break the rules for a few weeks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard eagerly clinked his wine glass with hers, nodding in agreement. “Cheers to that, then!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both savoured their drinks for a while in silence, neither particularly sure how to continue the discussion. Despite the quiet, it didn’t seem to produce any level of ungainliness between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell you what, Sabine,” Richard broke the stillness with a proposition, “Come by early tomorrow and I’ll make sure you get some good conversations. No scheduled press time or any silliness like that. If you’re going to tell the stories we </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be heard, I am happy to convince the others to let you in closer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was the wine getting to him? She certainly thought she could be hallucinating -- after all, she’d only JUST started what was going to be a potentially grueling 3 to 4 weeks and had only just met Richard by pure happenstance in a hotel bar late at night after a show. He seemed genuine enough though, and if that was the case, this would certainly make her job easier -- on top of that, she had ENJOYED talking to all of them so far. While of course musician egos were a thing, they all seemed relatively down-to-earth and willing to talk, providing that the topic of discussion wasn’t the standard fare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be delightful,” She countered, “Let me know when and where, and I’m there.” She fought through the warmth of the gin and seriously took him up on his offer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled his phone from his pocket and made a few motions on the touchscreen before handing it to her, a new contact form front and centre. “Put your details here and I’ll send you a message with the where and when,” Sabine carefully entered her name and number before passing it back to him. “I’ll send you a message now so you have my details as well. Just in case you think I’m full of shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within a few seconds of Richard’s thumbs working away on the touchscreen her own phone buzzed with a message - just a simple guitar emoji that caused her to snort a bit with laughter. “Of course, I guess I can’t forget who it is with that sort of obvious message,” Sabine retorted with playful sarcasm, saving the contact in her phone as “Richard K” before placing it carefully back in her pocket. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My pleasure,” he acknowledged, polishing off his glass of wine with impressive speed. “I think though, I need to call it a night. We can drink more the next time we come across each other in a hotel bar when there isn’t an early wakeup call the next day.” He stood up to leave, but not before bringing the bartender over to settle the bill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please put her tab on mine,” He turned to her with a grin, “Have a good night, and we will see you tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he left the bar area and retreated to his suite, Sabine sat and chuckled to herself - this certainly wasn’t going how she imagined, but it was most definitely going to produce one hell of a story. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Hurricane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for being a bad author and not posting the past few weeks! Inspiration comes and goes, but I'll try to update as regularly as I can. Thank you for your kind kudos and messages!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Why do we let them fabricate<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Who we love and hate<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>We won't get upset unless they allow us to<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Stop being machines<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Start being human<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Rediscover what makes you feel alive</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <b>Moretta -- Hurricane</b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine rolled over with a groan, burying her face in the pillow and reaching haphazardly for her phone to smash the snooze button.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Fifteen more minutes, ugh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she muttered against the soft linen as her phone tumbled onto the floor, pulling the comforter up higher over her body to try and avoid the little bits of sunlight creeping in through the small gaps in the curtains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t help though - despite the five hours of sleep and desperate for more, she had been pulled out of unconsciousness and was now quickly waking up. She grunted, throwing the blanket back and sitting up, snatching her phone up off the floor and unlocking it with blurry eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Email. Email. Social media notifications. Nothing too exciting as she began to scroll through her inbox -- mostly just standard business stuff, seeing as it was a nine-hour time difference between California and Germany. The day for her colleagues was already nearly over - she would get back to them later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Getting up to make a cup of morning espresso to make a miserable attempt at de-zombifying seemed like a monumental task, but she managed to drag herself off the bed and over to the room’s small coffee bar. Jet lag was a real bitch, especially after a late night by the standards of either continent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was usually fairly quick to adjust to time zone shifts, but it did take a few days. She’d now been in Munich for less than 48 hours, and it would easily be another day before she truly adjusted. Sabine hoped - no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>prayed </span>
  </em>
  <span>- that she hadn’t sabotaged her attempts at getting on a European time schedule by pulling a late-night stint. It had certainly been an interesting and potentially worthwhile one, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rich, aromatic smell of freshly brewed espresso quickly perked her senses as the machine ground out the last of the piping hot brew. The first few draws from the small, quaint demitasse were a welcome warmth and comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The meditative stillness of morning coffee was broken by the repetitive buzzing of her phone on the desk nearby, lit up with a text message notification. Sabine blinked for a few seconds, still waking up, grabbing the phone and looking at the message on the screen.<br/><br/></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[ RICHARD Z ]</span>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
    <span>I’ve arranged a time and place if you’re still interested. Lmk.</span>
    <span> <br/><br/></span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a few moments for Sabine’s brain to register exactly WHO the message was from and what it meant -- she was quickly reminded of the meeting she’d had the night previous with Rammstein guitarist Richard. It had been fairly happenstance but a good connection -- she had momentarily forgotten he’d offered to get her a bit closer to the band than the standard access would allow. Her honesty and candor had won him over - and apparently a good portion of the rest of the band, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She placed the cup down on the desk to devote both thumbs to composing a reply.<br/><br/></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[ SABINE ]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yup. Tell me when and where. What’s the catch?<br/><br/></span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Even barely awake, she could throw in some subtle snark. Almost immediately the “...” notification to show Richard was typing popped up on the conversation screen -- apparently, he wasn’t wasting any time.<br/><br/></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[ RICHARD K ]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The catch? You have to listen to our bullshit.<br/><br/></span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He continued typing after sending the message - she placed the phone down and went to the bathroom before returning to his second reply.<br/><br/></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[ RICHARD K ]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>There’s a cafe around the corner from the hotel. Really small. Till is going to meet you at the hotel and take you there.</em>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine raised a brow - she didn’t quite expect Rammstein’s frontman to be the first one she got “detailed” access to, especially after nearly knocking him over the day prior. But, she supposed, she would take it and have a better opportunity to apologize profusely for her own absent-mindedness. <br/><br/></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[ SABINE ]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>You’re not going to be joining us? What time?</em>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard started his response fairly quickly again.<br/><br/></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[ RICHARD K ]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>No, I have things to do. He’s the only one free right now and he wanted to continue the conversation from yesterday anyway. He’s on his way there now...so, soon. He’ll be in the lobby waiting for you.</em>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nearly choked on what was left of her espresso -- she wasn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>dressed</span>
  </em>
  <span> or prepared to start working quite yet. But the opportunity was too good to pass up, and she’d be stupid to not take advantage of what she’d been (very, very gratefully) offered. Looking over at her suitcase and the pile of clothes that sat strewn within it, she considered briefly what she would pull out for the day before replying to Richard.<br/><br/></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[ SABINE ]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
  <em>Good thing I work well on short notice. Thank you!! I’ll meet him shortly - let him know I’ll need fifteen minutes. </em>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A few seconds later he replied simply with the thumbs up emoji and “Done”, indicating that he’d let Till know she was getting her shit together to meet him in the lobby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting the phone down she allowed a brief moment of panic to set in before quickly throwing her notebook and recorder in a small satchel with her wallet, phone, and passport. While it was true she </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>work well on short notice, fifteen minutes first thing in the morning wasn’t something that happened all that often, and certainly not at this level of jet lag. She chugged the rest of the espresso and went over to the suitcase to pull out something to wear other than ragged track pants and a baggy t-shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>------------</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been impressive that she’d managed to look decently put together in such a short span of time. Leaving the hotel room after one last check to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything, she took a quick glance in the floor-length mirror at the doorway to also make sure she looked presentable and professional. While generally music journalists weren’t expected to show up like a high-level sporting event or black-tie affair, she felt it important to at least not look like she’d only woken up half an hour earlier. A pair of dark wash jeans, a comfortable sleeveless athletic fabric tank top, and a blazer with the sleeves rolled up was both relaxed and professional. She wore a pair of low-top Converse sneakers - classic black - that were well broken in and the most comfortable footwear for traversing around concert venues and big cities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d put her hair in a quick messy bun, running her bangs quickly through a straightener to convince them into sitting properly. The same makeup look from the day before was all she had time for - a small wing with a light coat of mascara.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satisfied that she didn’t look like a total trainwreck, she shut the door and jogged down the hallway towards the elevator. Nervously, she drummed the fingers of her left hands against her satchel after hitting the call button and waiting for the car. It felt like an eternity before it arrived and the sliding doors opened with a “ding”, an empty ride to the lobby blissful relief; she at least now had a few moments to compose her thoughts, and come down from the adrenaline of having to get ready so quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being caught off-guard was always alarming, but in this case, especially so - her reaction to needing to move quickly and get rolling fast could completely change the outcome of her story. How she conducted herself and carried on the discussion she was about to have would make or break how the rest of her time with Rammstein in Europe would turn out; it would, at the end of the day, affect the way she was able to truly present the band to the public, and the angle with which she would take. It filled her with nervous excitement, too - she had never had this level of access to any band before - and she didn’t want to fuck up what could potentially lead to a very, very prominent piece of her portfolio. An unprecedented level of access was certainly something she could say made her story an exclusive take on Rammstein’s story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she stepped off the elevator and into the lobby, he was already waiting for her. Seeing Till Lindemann again for the second time didn’t mean he was any less intimidating - he was a broad man, with a fairly stern expression and an intense gaze. He offered a genuine smile to her as he saw her, a hand raising in a small wave as she approached. He was wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt, and hoodie, and held a ball cap and sunglasses in his other hand (which she assumed allowed him to be somewhat incognito walking around Munich’s town center).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Sabine greeted, “Thank you in advance for your time this morning. I appreciate Richard putting you up to this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile spread across his lips and he laughed, “Richard said his conversation with you was just as interesting as mine had been,” He gestured towards the door, putting the hat and sunglasses back on. “It's rare that someone wants to do more than ask us the same things, over and over again. Our story and our approach to art and music aren’t that boring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took the queue and headed towards the door, taken when he opened and held it for her. “Oh, thanks,” Sabine rushed through it, waiting for TIll on the other side. The on-stage persona compared to what she had experienced in person was quite a dramatic shift. “Well, I do appreciate it. I also am happy for the offer to talk in a different setting to a venue media room, as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till nodded, turning a quick right at the next block, Sabine following alongside him. He kept his head low - it was probably hard to avoid being spotted in his home country.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like privacy,” He replied quietly, knowing she wasn’t too far behind him to hear. “It is easier to have a genuine conversation without the public around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Indeed, a genuine conversation - not so much an interview - was every journalist’s dream.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Making Due</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Insert Fluff Here.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Chapter V. Making Due</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>So I'm wondering</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Where can we go now</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And I'm wondering</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Where can we go now</em>
</p><p>“Making Due” by The Arkells</p><p>
  
</p><p>Till led her to a place that truly fit the definition of “hole in the wall” – it was small, only about six round tables that sat four, and a cozy counter bar lined with a variety of alcohol that she had never seen. It was nestled into a cobbled Munich side street, tucked into what looked like an old multi-story house, behind the main entrance and hidden in a small, quaint garden. The tables looked like they might have been salvaged from an old shipwreck – they were ancient-looking and rustic, with layers upon layers of veneer painted on top of old, carved up wood. Exposed beams accented well-crafted old masonry, the walls left relatively bare save for some small shelves with green plants and knick-knacks. The café played smooth jazz over wall-mounted speakers; the volume slightly higher than you would normally expect for a sit-down establishment of its size.</p><p>Apparently, it was an absolute gem. Even first thing in the morning.</p><p>Their walk had been a fairly quiet and uneventful one – it wasn’t far from the hotel at all – and Sabine observed that Till seemed to be quiet relaxed in his surroundings. He didn’t say much on their walk, other than the occasional thoughtful “Hmm” as they passed by something interesting or seemingly familiar, but it didn’t have the feeling of awkwardness she expected it might have – in fact, she’d momentarily forgotten she was on anything but a walk with an old friend. He seemed to have a relaxing effect on her today, compared to the relatively heightened sense of intimidation and anxiety she’d experienced the day before. That was an absolute relief.</p><p>They sat down at a table in the corner, with her back to the shop window and Till opposite. The bartender – who doubled as table server, too – came to drop a few menus to their table (all in German, of course) and take drink orders; a coffee with just cream for Sabine, and a strong black tea with one sugar for Till. They sat silently for a few moments after the server left to prepare their drinks, Sabine flipping through the brunch menu to try and discern a few familiar words that might give her a hint.</p><p>“Are you hungry?” His hands were clasped together on the top of the table as he posed a question to her, a serious expression on his face.</p><p>“Yes, but I can wait,” She began with a shrug. “Eating during an interview is not really defined as ‘professional’ tactic –”</p><p>“You should eat,” He cut her off, his fingers unraveling from each other and one hand raising slightly. “Then we can interview.” Till picked up the menu and appeared to skim it before turning his attention back to her. “How’s your German?”</p><p>She admitted to herself – she WAS hungry – and she was thankful that Till was thoughtful enough to allow her a quick feed before getting to “work”. She too considered the menu for a moment before replying to him.</p><p>“Not good enough to understand this, I don’t think…the extent of what I can get out of here is the occasional <em>coffee </em>or <em>bacon</em>,” The important words, clearly.</p><p>Till laughed a bit, pulling out the chair between them and moving over to it with the menu so they could look together. “Let me help,” he cleared his throat, “Last thing we need is an American thinking our food is awful because you ordered the wrong thing.”</p><p>She giggled, rolling her eyes sarcastically, “Sure, sure,” Sabine retorted, “You just want to make sure I don’t order the most expensive thing on the menu.”</p><p>Till mirrored the sarcasm with a particular German candor: “Oh, am <em>I </em>paying?”</p><p>“I’m fairly sure the daily <em>per diem</em> for members of the most famous German band in modern history is significantly higher than that of a journalist,” Their coffee and tea arrived, and she paused to take a deep drink for the sake of more caffeination. She’d probably need it. “In all seriousness though, I’m happy to cover this – you’re taking time away from your schedule for me. So, let’s both order the finest steak and eggs and just get it over with.”</p><p>“Steak…and eggs?” Till’s pierced brow raised at her quizzically. “<em>Americans</em>,” More sarcasm from the German. “We’ll sort out the cheque when it arrives, Ms. Connelly.”</p><p>She scoffed. “It’s Sabine, please. I hate that kind of formality.”</p><p>“Good. Me too. Now, let’s find something to eat.”</p><p>They spent the next few minutes huddled over the menus, sitting side-by-side, forgetting the fact they were actually there to talk shop. Till’s European sense of humour was rather agreeable – he was dry, sarcastic, and blunt, but always had a polite air about him that she found rather intriguing. He was well-practiced in the public image game, sure; but it never once seemed to her that he was putting on a ‘front’ to impress the journalist. As far as she had been able to gather, this was just who Till was.</p><p>Orders placed and menus removed, Till moved back to the seat across from her to continue drinking his tea. Sabine had gotten used to the warmth of his body seated next to hers, and the occasional brush of shoulders – his energy was rather pleasing and calming as well. She chalked it up to the general magnetism that frontmen tended to have – after all, it took a special personality type to be able to stand in front of thousands. She was sure, too, he was easily able to charm women with his slightly cheeky, but considerably gentleman-like persona. She tried not to dwell on the change of feeling in her body as he moved back to the other side of the table, but something about it continued to nag at her mind.</p><p> She shook the feeling off and took another swig of coffee, glad for the strong brew that would hopefully wake her up from whatever state she’d just found herself in. She sighed – long and drawn out – and looked at him with a questioning gaze. She might as well make some sort of conversation.</p><p>“So,” She began, holding the mug of coffee with both hands on the table in front of her and tapping her fingers against the handle. “What did Richard tell you about our late-night hotel bar meeting?”</p><p>A subtle smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “He made sure to point out that you did not run into him,” A flicker of mischief sparked in his eyes, “So at least that makes one of us.”</p><p>“You’re not letting that go, are you,” She mocked exasperation with a sigh.</p><p>“Why should I?” Till smirked. “It’s a good story. A journalist not watching where she’s going, especially one trying to work with us for a few weeks. It sure is an interesting way to start out.”</p><p>Sabine flushed bright red. She knew he was just playing, but it was <em>still</em> embarrassing.</p><p>He noticed, his expression easing. Till reached across the table to put a hand softly on her arm, his eyes soft – “I’m just teasing. It is really okay.”</p><p>Through firetruck red cheeks she offered a reassuring smile, now feeling even stupider for letting him get to her. She was <em>not</em> normally like this…why was she suddenly so sensitive?!</p><p>“<em>Fräulein</em>?” He inquired formally in his native tongue; eyes still shadowed with concern.</p><p>“Sorry,” She applied carelessly, eyes darting away from his after their gazes met. His expression was just way too intense for her right now. “I’ve….” She paused, trying to figure out how to justify her own feelings, “I’ve got a lot on my shoulders with this piece. I guess you could say…I’m trying to make this my big-shot longform,” Sabine shrugged, inhaling deeply to get some oxygen to her brain, “I’d like to <em>not</em> fuck up my chances for a good start with you guys, so yesterday was certainly not me at my best. I don’t tend to run over the topics of my articles in my own clumsiness.” The colour started to leave her face and her normal paleness returned, as she came to grips with herself.</p><p>“You did not fuck it up,” He replied with an easy laugh, “If anything, you just piqued my curiosity. Your approach appeals to me.” His strong hand, still warm against her arm, squeezed gently in reassurance. “I think all of us have so far enjoyed your honesty. That is why you and I are here this morning.”</p><p>Sabine let a small smile creep onto her lips, “Thanks, Till.” Her heart rate returned to a normal cadence, and her blood pressure – which had steadily been creeping up – normalized. “And thanks for doing this. I know it’s not your normal way of being interviewed…I mean, it isn’t my normal way of <em>interviewing</em>. I’m too used to the formality of it all.”</p><p>His hand left her arm – that change in energy noticeable for her again – and returned to his tea. In the future, she really needed to try not to become catatonic around her interview subjects.</p><p>“It isn’t our normal way either, but so far it is much more enjoyable,” He returned after a couple of seconds of pause, seeming to study her for a brief few moments. “May I ask you something?”</p><p>Her interest was piqued by his question. “Sure?”</p><p>“Can you tell me about yourself?”</p><p>“You mean…you want to interview <em>me</em>?” She was thoroughly confused now – no, this definitely was not the way she normally conducted her work.</p><p>Till grinned, “Why not? Most of our conversations are likely to be about <em>me </em>and my work. But when do I get to know about <em>you</em>?” He took a long drink from his tea, eyes not leaving her while he anticipated an answer.</p><p>Sabine mulled over it for a few moments, replying with a simple “Well, what do you want to know?”</p><p>“Where you’re from. What you do…other than this,” He gestured back and forth between the two of them, “Enlighten me.”</p><p>She bit her lip in thought, wondering how much detail she needed to give. The tables had turned – the interviewer had become the interviewee – and it wasn’t something she could’ve prepared for.</p><p>“I was born in Australia and moved to California as a teenager with my mom. She works in sports management and came to the US for a job, and that’s where we stayed,” Sabine cleared her throat, feeling a bit awkward talking about herself, but carrying on anyway. “I did a few internships in media with the various agencies she worked with and that’s how I got into journalism.”</p><p>“I’ve always preferred music to sports, though – I don’t really follow any teams or anything. But as a teenager I was obsessed with all sorts of genres, classical to country to metal, and learned as much about different styles and the business as I could.”</p><p>Till nodded as she spoke, attention rapt to her.</p><p>“Outside of work? I’m always seeing live music, especially up-and-comers in dive bars and sketchy shit holes,” She laughed, reminiscing about how Rammstein got their start in America in some of the very places she tended to frequent when traveling. “I like the occasional video game too, but I don’t always have time for that on the road.” She shrugged.</p><p>“Hmm,” Till mused, taking it all in. He pensively took a long drink of his tea. “You’re from Australia but you sound very American?” He inflected, posing another question.</p><p>Sabine laughed. “I lost the accent trying to fit in. You’d be surprised – it does come back occasionally.”</p><p>His brow perked. “Oh really?”</p><p>“Only if I get <em>really</em> drunk, or <em>really </em>mad, or some combination thereof.” She giggled.</p><p>“And what do you like to drink?” He grilled her, without pause, eyes lit up with genuine curiosity.</p><p>Sabine paused and thought for a moment – a lot of things if she was being honest, but she did have her favourites. “Gin and tonic is an old standby – Richard can attest to that,” She winked, “But I’ve learned to appreciate a good wine, too. Beer is also always easy. And if you catch me in the right mood, I’m all over pina coladas.”</p><p>Till let out a genuine belly laugh, intense eyes softening. “That....I will admit, I did not expect. Pina coladas, well noted!”</p><p>“Just not at 9:00 am,” She corrected, as the server approached the table with their food. “Oh good, I’m starving!” Sabine was glad to have something to distract from the subject of herself for the moment.</p><p>The older man thanked the server and waited obligingly for her to start eating first (making her feel rather self-conscious and awkward, but it was interesting to note that he was a bit of a traditionalist) before taking his first bites, another silent few minutes occurring between them while they ate.</p><p>Till broke the silence again, “What about your father?”</p><p>Sabine pursed her lips, swallowing what she’d been chewing on and taking a second to compose her reply. “He died when I was 10.”</p><p>“Oh, shit…I’m so sorry, I should not have asked,” He looked rather taken back, a slight flush now hitting his cheeks.</p><p>She made a flat gesture with one hand while holding a piece of crisp bacon. “No, no, it's okay. I was very young. He got sick. It broke our hearts but…I wouldn’t be where I am today without him, and I appreciate the memories I was able to have.”</p><p>Till sat stock still in his own embarrassment.</p><p>“Really, Till, it’s okay,” She offered a genuine smile.</p><p>He quickly turned the subject around, posing another question: “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”</p><p>Sabine shook her head and held up one index finger. “Just me. <em>Numero uno</em>. My poor parents. I must have been an unholy terror for them to not have any more,” She laughed.</p><p>His awkwardness faded away and he laughed with her. “I’m sure neither of them felt that way. You seem very accomplished and intelligent,” A lopsided smile took residence on his lips. She knew from her research he was a father, too, so he must have some idea what it was like to have a daughter (or two).</p><p>“So when do we get to the part where I get to work and ask <em>you </em>questions, Mr Lindemann?” She changed the subject.</p><p>“Ah, no formalities, remember?” He chided with a smirk, “At this point, I think I am enjoying this far too much to talk about <em>me. </em>Let’s do that another time. Perhaps with one of those pina coladas you mentioned?”</p><p>Oh no, he wasn’t getting away with it <em>that</em> easily.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I've given up a bit on finding specific songs because sometimes it's just WAY too hard to pick, so bear with me here!</p><p>I'm hoping to get this really moving now in the next few chapters because even I can't stand slow burn THAT slow ;) </p><p>Thanks as always for your feedback + kudos! This chapter hasn't been my favourite to write as I get back into the swing of things, so sorry in advance &lt;3</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>After two days in Munich, a few days break, then a few more days in Dresden, it seemed like the time was already flying by on Sabine’s month on tour with the Rammstein circus. She enjoyed the few days off between the two-day shows in each city, taking the time to sightsee and properly transcribe her interviews and conversations. Each night, she’d be back at the venue observing the absolutely massive, enthusiastic crowds and taking notes as quirky little moments appeared in the set.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the most part, the shows were an incredibly planned spectacle down to the very last second, the need for a high level of safety and planning around pyrotechnics apparent in how everything was organized. She appreciated that attention to detail, but each night little antics would creep into the set from different members of the band that she found rather intriguing. She made note of these, carefully considering where they might fit into the overall narrative of her story, reflecting each time on the differences between the men she saw on the stage and the men she had been able to interact with behind the scenes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since her breakfast with Till, they hadn’t actually had a chance to sit down and have a proper one-to-one interview -- he’d kept the conversation about her, and then became relatively elusive when she tried to ask HIM questions. He seemed more interested in questioning her than allowing himself to be questioned; Sabine surmised this was probably the after-effects of so many years being asked the same thing over and over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She reflected on that day as she pulled her rental Volkswagen into Rostock, two days before the band was scheduled to arrive for setup and rehearsal. If she was being completely honest with herself, she’d struggled to actually get their meet-up out of her mind; there was an enigmatic factor about Lindemann she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but that kept her thoughts returning to him like magnetism. It was easy for her to understand why he rarely appeared in paparazzi photos without a gorgeous woman on his arm -- he was a gentleman, polite and courteous, but with a brooding mystery bubbling beneath the surface.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had finished their breakfast and taken to the side streets of Munich, sticking to quieter areas without a lot of tourists. She had been patient and observant with the few fan interactions they had - again, Till remaining courteous each time and happily posing for selfies or signing whatever was on-hand. By the time they returned back to the hotel so Till could head to rehearsal they hadn’t at all touched on any topics related to Rammstein; more so, they’d spent the time discussing </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> life and </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>experiences. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saying goodbye, she’d flashed a smirk at him with a clever retort: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have to take you up on that pina colada offer I suppose if I’m going to get to ask you any questions at all!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had laughed quietly, offered her a quick handshake in parting, before bidding her a good day and heading back to the venue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shortly after, she’d received a text message from what could only have been him:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Make sure they have plenty of vodka. - T</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine hadn’t yet responded to the message, not really sure how to proceed. It seemed so beyond what her professional experience ever had been with musicians, even small-town ones, to be so open with the idea of meeting up with a journalist, that she was rather taken back. She took her phone off the passenger seat of the Volkswagen, pulling the message up again and mulling over it for a few seconds before letting out a big sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What would it hurt to take him up on his offer?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where in Rostock is there a good bar with plenty of vodka and good pina Coladas?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged, thinking it was a rather stupid sounding message but sending it anyway. For a few moments, she stared at the phone, as if she expected him to text her back right away -- fat chance. He was probably enjoying the break away from the media and human circus of touring. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>------------- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hotel she’d booked for three nights in Rostock was a beautiful one, right along the city’s stunning waterfront. Cobblestone footpaths led their way to and from the different buildings - condos, restaurants, other small businesses - with a gentle June breeze dancing through the leaves on the different trees lining the paths. It was a quaint city, and a beautiful one; quieter than Munich and Dresden had been, but with the same modernity tucked inside its old masonry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grabbed her luggage from the car and checked into her room, leaving her things behind to take to some of the footpaths and head towards the western side of the waterfront, where Mediterranean-style beaches replaced buildings and bustle. The beaches would be busy in June, but that didn’t matter -- there was a little sense of home in walking barefoot in the sand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sand. Seagulls. Sun. It was almost like being back in California. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine stopped to take off her shoes, rolling up the bottoms of her jeans to wade into the cool water. It was much too cold this early in the summer for her to consider swimming, but the estuary water lapping against her ankles was both grounding and refreshing. The waves were gentle but lulling in their rhythm as she walked the shoreline for what seemed like hours, enjoying the fresh air and sun on her skin. Being cooped up in a hotel room writing, and multiple late nights, really did a number on her psyche. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, she found a small, empty gazebo to stop at, pulling a lounge chair to the edge of the shade and happily relaxing into the reclined position. Having neglected it for the whole time she’d been walking down the beach, Sabine drew her phone from her pocket, grimacing at the number of missed notifications from what was probably only an hour away from the screen. She scrolled through them with a scowl, knowing at some point she needed to take an </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual</span>
  </em>
  <span> day off, stopping though when a message preview popped up on her screen:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you already in Rostock? - T</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her cheeks flushed for a brief few seconds before she unlocked the screen and started tapping a reply. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, enjoying the peace and quiet. The beaches are lovely.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t really know what else to say at that point, other than to plainly and honestly reply. It was still strange to her that she was texting the members of a band she was on assignment with, and not in the context of working. As strange and foreign as it felt, though, there was part of her that enjoyed it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few moments later, her phone buzzed again,</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you free tonight? I could use the vodka and I’m sure you could use the rum.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Why was he asking her so candidly? Sabine hesitated before starting her reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t have any plans.</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She hit send, realizing how terse the short sentence reply sounded. Her thumbs started tapping against the screen to reply further. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are YOU in Rostock already?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine waited a few minutes for a reply, but none came. Instead, the phone began ringing with a phone call. It was Till. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t get a chance to say hello before he started talking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not in Rostock but I will be soon,” He began, sounding rather flustered and rushed on the other end, “Where are you staying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine cleared her throat and retorted with some sarcasm, “Hi to you as well, Till - I’m doing great thanks,” She adjusted how she was sitting in the chair before continuing. “I’m down by the waterfront…Have you murdered someone, Till? Or run someone over with your car? Why does it sound like you’re half out of breath?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A guttural growl came from the other end of the line, “Argh, that’s for later. Text me where you’re staying, I will pick you up at seven, sharp.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t sound like I’ve got much of a choice, here…” Sabine began, “What am I wearing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clothes, preferably,” Till replied sharply, the sound of him rummaging through something in the background picked up by his microphone. “I just need to think, and drink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hesitated slightly, thoroughly confused. “Uhhh….alright then. I’ll see you at seven. I’ll send you a location ping in a bit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only word she got in reply was “Good”, before the older man hung up the phone and left her wondering what in the hell could possibly be going on. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is a nice long one! Hope you guys enjoy the start of some potential drama ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The walk back to the hotel led Sabine past boutique cafes and beach-side pubs; small tourist shops bustling with crowds as the day began to draw on. It was mid-afternoon now, the sun high and hot in the June sky, The occasional cloud would dart past the sun and dim the light, but it would quickly find its way past the great glowing orb and bring the heat back again, reminding her of early summer back home. The tourist shops were much less crowded than California surf shops alongside the beach - instead, they were quaint, with only a few patrons in and out, most people sticking to the patios or the beach itself to take in the Rostock waterfront.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had decided to take her time heading back, her mind buzzing. The abrupt replies, the rather irritated sounding voice on the end of the phone -- she wasn’t sure exactly what kind of mood Till was in, but it didn’t sound entirely pleasant. Of course, without the face-to-face contact context wasn’t necessarily clear; but that didn’t stop her delving into the overthinking part of her personality, anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounded irritated, that was for certain. At her? At a bandmate? Why did he specifically want to go out for drinks with </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> if he was frustrated? Surely Till had other friends to vent his frustrations to - she was just a journalist, a young one at that, and had only spent a few hours with him over the course of a matter of days. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense but it sent her mind reeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tiny corner cafe caught her eye, just a few blocks before the hotel. She dipped inside the glass French doors, greeted by the welcoming aroma of freshly ground espresso and steamed drinks. With the increasing June heat it was the perfect day for a cold drink, and she quickly recognized “smoothie” on the menu with a few different options. Placing an order for a mango banana mix, with added yogurt and pineapple juice, she stood to the side of the counter after paying to wait, digging her phone out of her pocket to review a few of the other messages she’d received during her walk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eric, of course, had texted her. She hadn’t yet replied to him since Till had all but demanded her attention. Sabine tapped a quick reply back to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's going -- how’s home? How’s Emma?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a while since she’d checked in on how his wife was handling late-term pregnancy. She was almost nine months now and HAD to be getting uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t take long for Eric to start typing back - it was morning in California and he was an early riser - and Sabine couldn’t help but smile knowing they could still carry on a conversation, even halfway across the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Emma is...tired. Very tired. I don’t think she’ll ever want more kids.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>How’s Rostock? Anything exciting?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine debated for a minute telling Eric about her strange phone call with Till, but held off. She hadn’t really had a chance to mention their breakfast “interview” a few days earlier to Eric yet, either -- especially since it hadn’t really involved an actual interview.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Rostock is nice - I’m just down at the beach right now grabbing something from a waterfront cafe before heading back to my room for a bit. I want to get a few things done on this story before I go out later.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Whoops. She hadn’t meant to put that in there - word vomit at its best - and now she was probably going to have some explaining to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Going OUT? You? Partying? Did you meet some handsome German who convinced you to leave your laptop for more than an hour?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There it was, typical Eric sarcasm and blunt humour. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. Wouldn’t you like to know?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His replies came much quicker.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That sounds like the Sabine I know, dodging questions.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Just then her name was called for her drink and she collected it eagerly, putting her phone back in her pocket to enjoy the smoothie on her way back to the hotel. Eric could wait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clearly, though, he just HAD to know. Her pocket kept buzzing as he sent more messages, eventually turning into a full-out phone call. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nosy bastard,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sabine mused, walking into the elevator in the hotel lobby just before it could close behind her. She’d call him back once in her room and out of public earshot -- it was enough that Eric wanted to know her business, let alone the entirety of the hotel’s patronage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kicked off her shoes upon arriving in her room and grabbed her laptop and headphones, sitting down on the bed with her back propped against the headboard. Connecting the headphones to the phone she dialed Eric’s number, opening the laptop to do some work while she waited for him to pick up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“SABINE! You ignored me!” He greeted with mock dismay, pretending to sound shocked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes at him - he couldn’t see it, but they knew each other well enough he could probably feel it from the other side of the world. “I wasn’t IGNORING you, I was just busy. You know, walking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm, we know how you are with walking and talking,” Eric said, pausing for a few moments to see if she would fight back to his quips. She didn’t, so he carried on, “So. Your plans tonight. Are you going to tell me or no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if I say I don’t want to tell you?” Sabine replied, tapping a few notes into her word document as she edited what she’d already written - multitasking at its finest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eric </span>
  <em>
    <span>harumphed</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the other end of the line, “So he’s older and aloof, got it. What else can you tell me about the Mysterious Mr. German?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eric,” Sabine interjected, pausing from her editing to sigh, “You’re prying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re purposefully avoiding my clever questions,” He said, “I know you, Sab. I can tell when you’re hiding something from me,” She had to admit, he DID know that much about her. “So who is he? Don’t make me break out the award-winning journalist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine laughed at him. What harm was there in hiding things from her best friend? Sure, he DID happen to also be her boss but...they shared a lot together. Plus, she was only hanging out with Till on mostly professional terms - they talked, they acted like acquaintances, that was it. Maybe touring life was lonely and he felt like talking to her was easier than some random stranger in a hotel bar somewhere. She could appreciate that, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You probably wouldn’t even believe it if I told you,” She began, “Its been an odd few days.” You could say that again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eric pressed on, “Try me, Connelly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She let out a moderately exasperated sigh, “Fine. Let me preface this with...its JUST to talk over drinks. Nothing else,” She ran a hand through her hair, feeling a bit annoyed that she was having to have this conversation with Eric. “Its Till.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Till? Till when? Midnight? Tomorrow?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No Eric, LINDEMANN. Till Lindemann. You know...the singer from Rammstein?” It would’ve been an appropriate face-to-palm moment, really. Eric was occasionally incredibly obtuse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other end of the line went silent for a few moments, broken only by Eric clearing his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um...what?” Was all he could muster, clearly confused. “How...how exactly did that happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She told Eric everything. How on her first day with the band she nearly knocked the frontman clean over but impressed them with her interview tactic. She explained chatting with Richard in the hotel bar after the first night in Munich, and how Till and she had gone out for breakfast the day after, in hopes of an intimate interview that never happened. Sabine then elaborated on the texting she’d done with Till that day, and arranging the plans, and then the phone call - she left out the details of Till’s exasperation though, just in case that was pushing it a little too far. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eric didn’t say much as she told the story of her first week on the tour, other than interjecting with the occasional “Hmm” and “Sure” as she continued. Finally, after she finished, he took a few moments to think before replying to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just...be careful, Sab,” He said, “He’s ultra-famous. The guy’s got women at his beck-and-call. Don’t get hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine flushed brilliant red, “I’m not going on a date with him, Eric. I told you that. Its drinks and a chat, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it was HER turn to theoretically hear Eric’s eyes roll. “Sabine, come on. He’s at the very least interested in you. You’re probably another potential notch in the guy’s bedpost - a journalist wanting to get close is the perfect opportunity for an easy lay. You know that just as well as I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bit the inside of her cheeks thinking about it. Eric </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been around this industry longer and had undoubtedly seen this shit. Maybe he had a point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, Sabine,” He continued, “Maybe that’s what it is, maybe it isn’t. Just be careful. I don’t want you to get heartbroken or hurt over some showboating rockstar -- its not worth it,” She could feel his voice soften on the other end of the line as she considered it. “I know you’re smart and more self-aware than most people - I know you can handle it. I just….yeah,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” She replied, his pause bothering her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t get steamrolled by a man with pretty eyes and an empty heart.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-------------</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone call with Eric had certainly stopped and made her think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if that </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>Till’s goal with all this? What if that was why he’d been such a gentleman and taken her to breakfast? He’d been nothing but cordial and courtly, paying the bill (despite her insistence that he didn’t have to), making sure she got back to the hotel okay, and even sending the follow-up message she’d responded with earlier to invite her out for the drinks they’d joked about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if….at the end of it all, he was just in it for an easy fuck?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She put her laptop away and laid in the hotel bed, staring blankly out the window at the waterfront view. The breeze tugged at the light curtains and caused them to flutter against the window, a rhythmic sound harmonizing with the sound of the waves on the beaches below. The seagulls seemed to taunt her thoughts with their cries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had she been incredibly naive? She’d told Till so many deeply personal things - stories about her family, her childhood, her dreams and her aspirations. She didn’t normally open up to people like that but he had just been so easy to do so with. The conversation flowed, and he had been a great listener - he didn’t judge, just smiled and agreed with her, or passed a small anecdote of his own in response. Till seemed to have enjoyed her company but….maybe that was all just a guise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was bothered. Bothered that she’d let herself start feeling comfortable and relaxed with someone who she didn’t even know and had only met twice. As much as she’d been afraid to admit it, she’d certainly fallen under whatever spell it was he’d been able to place under - his charisma and mystery had intrigued her, and drawn her in. And she’d been the naive fly, flying right into the spider’s waiting web. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---------</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine awoke to her phone going haywire on the bedside table, the damn thing almost vibrating clear off the laminate wood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She must’ve fallen asleep in frustration - between the tail-end of the jetlag, the late nights, the travel, and the conversation with Eric her brain had just gone into overload and sent her into a deep sleep. Drowsily, she grabbed the phone and looked at it through half-lidded eyes, shooting awake like a dart when she saw the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>7:06 PM.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till was calling her, and she could see he had sent her a few text messages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” she groaned, picking up the phone, “Hey -- I’m sorry, I fell asleep…” Her voice was groggy but apologetic. Looking for a quick fuck or not, standing him up probably wasn’t in the best interest of the next few weeks and the outcome of her story. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other end of the phone, she heard Till growl slightly, then a deep, grounding inhale. “Sabine, you’re okay,” He coughed and cleared his throat, “Did you want to reschedule?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shot out from under the blankets she’d crawled under, running towards the bathroom to see how asleep she looked. “No no, TIll I’m sorry...the day got away from me and I just fell as---”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cut her off. “Its okay. I can wait - how long do you think you’ll be?” His voice was deep and monotone, not entirely committal to one feeling or another. That was slightly nerve-wracking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Umm, why don’t you just come up here? I won’t be long,” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>, what was she doing? She’d just fallen asleep overthinking about the fact he might want to just fuck her and leave, and now she’d gone and invited him to her hotel room. She caught herself turn ghost white in the bathroom mirror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a moment before responding, “What room?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now she had to follow through. “406.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she could say anything else, he’d hung up the phone, assumingly so he could come up to meet her. She swore - rather loudly - wishing she’d still had that pack of cigarettes handy to smoke the anxiety away. This was straight-up college-level bullshit; who invited a guy they barely knew up to their hotel room in a completely strange city, especially after considering what their motivations might actually be?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She ran a hairbrush through her hair quickly, tying it in a messy bun before tossing her baggy Ramones t-shirt in her suitcase and grabbing an old Radiohead tour shirt from the clean pile. It would have to do for now - she didn’t want to be caught literally half-naked with Till about to show up on her doorstep - and she wiped the sleep from her makeup-less eyes before tidying what she could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His knock against the door was surprisingly gentle. She answered, checking quickly through the peephole to make sure it was indeed Till, and let him in. Her face was flushed, this time embarrassed he literally had to come to collect her from her room because of her own tardiness, apologizing as he entered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It happens,” His look was soft, forgiving. “Thank you for inviting me up.” He was unexpectedly quiet -- considering their earlier conversation, she expected him to be riled up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Composing herself in a quick moment, Sabine retreated back into the hotel room to finish getting herself ready. “Take a seat, I just need to put some makeup on. I look like I’m still asleep,” She quipped, trying to make the mood slightly less awkward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The large man sat on the foot of her bed, locking his fingers together and looking up at her briefly. “I think you look fine, if it helps,” Sabine blushed again, catching herself - she had to remember Eric’s wise words of caution.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate that, but I need to look human for myself more than anything,” She dismissed the compliment. Frankly, she was shit at taking them anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She disappeared quickly into the bathroom, leaving him to his own devices in the room, quickly putting on some concealer and mascara. When she came out, Till was standing at the window, arms behind his back, eyes intently watching as the sun had begun to set in the western sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, again,” Sabine said, breaking him from his concentration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waved dismissively, “It really is fine,” He took a few steps towards her, her breath catching in her throat. There was something commanding about his presence that she was now infinitely more cognizant of. “Are you ready?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine nodded, sliding her shoes on and grabbing a small handbag. “As ready as I can be, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, Till gestured at the hotel room door and they left, Sabine grateful that the awkwardness seemed to be mutual.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks again for your kudos and comments! Now that things have settled down a bit I'm hoping to write a bit more, and have some chapters "stored up" for publishing as things get rolling, but we'll see how that goes. I've got a very loose idea of where this story is going to go, and a rough idea of what will happen when (following the actual 2019 stadium tour timeline), so I'm looking forward to that!</p><p>As always, your encouragement is the best and I appreciate the shit out of it &lt;3 Let's get this ship sailing!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was nothing but silence exchanged between the two as they rode the elevator down, left the lobby, and walked to Till’s waiting gunmetal Audi. He graciously opened the passenger door for her, closing it after she was seated comfortably inside, before retreating to the driver’s side door and climbing in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine observed him carefully as he slid into the driver’s seat, watching as he pressed the ignition button before doing up his seatbelt and adjusting the chest strap to accommodate his broad shoulders. His strong hands grasped the steering wheel firmly, using the paddle shifts to put the car into reverse to pull out of the spot he’d parked in. The radio was quiet - playing classical music, surprisingly - and the silence between them remained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could certainly say there was an elegance to him, despite the fact he was tall and broad and didn’t fit the definition of “refined” by the first impression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes darted back and forth between the road and the rearview as they pulled out onto a main street, and she flipped her attention between him and the city surrounding them. There was just something intriguing about TIll that she couldn’t quite put a finger on - despite the fact he intimidated her, and now she was questioning his motives for offering to take her out in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Till?” Sabine broke the silence, her voice soft against the sound of a Bach piano piece.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ja?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He said, gaze not leaving the road in front of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hesitated for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “Why were you so...</span>
  <em>
    <span>upset</span>
  </em>
  <span> when you called me earlier? What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till let out a long sigh. “That’s a long story,” He began, the tone of his voice deepening as he spoke - something was eating at him. “I’m sorry if it alarmed you. It wasn’t my intent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Long stories are my specialty,” Sabine replied, her confidence in her ability to handle the situation growing. “Don’t apologize. And you don’t have to tell but, I’m willing to listen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffed slightly, hanging a right onto another main street. “Willing to listen and willing to publish my problems to the world?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bit the inside of her cheek. Of course, he would assume that - why would he think she was different from any other journalist who came across some potentially hot celebrity gossip? “What you tell me on the record versus not is up to you. I respect people more than that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then let’s keep tonight….</span>
  <em>
    <span>off the record</span>
  </em>
  <span> then,” He turned his gaze to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you want,” Sabine replied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stared out the window for a few moments, watching the street lights of Rostock start to turn on as the sun continued to dip further and further below the horizon. It was a beautiful city at night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So can I ask you a question, then?” She said, returning to look back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till replied with a questioning </span>
  <em>
    <span>hmm?</span>
  </em>
  <span> not offering to say much else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paused, realizing that she hadn’t been clear enough. “Ah, sorry...This is the second time you’ve invited me to spend time with you in an off the record context. Why, I guess, is my question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time that night, he chuckled, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He kept his eyes firmly on the road in front of them, taking some time to gather his thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To be honest, Sabine? I don’t have a real answer. Not one I can easily piece together, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She considered that for a few moments, but he continued. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Though I suppose if I AM being honest...I enjoy your company,” Till’s gaze shifted to her then, the spark she’d seen before in his eyes. “You appreciate this life,” he gestured with one hand, “And understand how I have to live. But still, you don’t treat me like some precious ornament to be kept on a pedestal. That first interview showed me you were willing to engage on a less than superficial level - Richard had the same feeling when he spoke with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a turn onto a side road, pulling into a small parking lot tucked away behind some older buildings. Turning the engine off after parking the car, he turned more to face her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I also appreciate your willingness to share your own life,” he continued, “especially considering the personal nature of what you told me. You did not have to tell me anything about your family, or your life, but you felt comfortable enough that you did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine flushed. She still wasn’t exactly sure how she’d felt so comfortable telling him those things about her family so quickly, but she just had. “I didn’t expect to be telling you, that’s for sure,” she shrugged, smiling at him, “but you’re a lot more than the man people see on stage.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till ran a hand through his dark hair contemplatively. “That doesn’t make for good journalism though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t have to,” Sabine said, “if I never write a thing outside the context of your stage personality no one will read into it - it’s what they’ve come to expect.” She had no doubt that no one wanted to read about how he liked his coffee, or how his mood seemed to shift radically. None of those mattered compared to the fire-wielding, deep-voiced frontman persona. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Plus,” she continued, reaching out to put a reassuring hand on his forearm, “I appreciate having someone to talk to while I’m on this assignment. The loneliness is real, and part of why I try to keep so busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till replied, “I know that too well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both exchanged friendly smiles before Sabine shifted the topic of conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where exactly are we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As promised - a place with plenty of vodka and a good pina colada,” Till replied, unlatching the car door and climbing out. He walked over to the passenger side to open Sabine’s door (like a gentleman), but she was already halfway out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” she apologized, “I’m not used to that sort of treatment, and you had me convinced at alcohol” She laughed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled in return, gesturing towards the sidewalk that met the parking lot a few metres away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they walked - Sabine attempting to keep pace with Till’s long strides - they stayed in silence for a few moments, each considering the words the other had earlier spoken. Sabine was even more at internal war with herself in regards to his intentions; in stark contrast to her experience and general ability to read people, Till was a bit of an enigma to her instincts. She still bore the concerns that Eric had brought up in the forefront of her mind but started to doubt them more and more - if Till really </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> just wanted a quick fuck, why hadn’t he just romanced her there and then in her hotel room? She would’ve been an easy target at that point to manipulate into quick sex and then an even quicker “goodbye”, but he didn’t. He’d stayed polite and distant, not saying too much, letting her get ready as she needed to before encouraging their night-time escapade to whatever bar they were walking to now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She began to consider that his appeal to her was more than perhaps just as a topic of journalist interest - she felt a personal connection to him, too. In the short time they’d spent together some seed had been planted in her mind and was starting to germinate - despite the fact that contrary seeds of doubt had also been planted in the same row, she was hoping that those would be able to be dismissed the more they got to know each other. There was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> about the man, regardless of their twenty or so year age difference and completely different lifestyles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine had felt secure in the physical closeness they’d shared during their breakfast meeting only a few days prior, remembering the feeling of their arms brushing as they’d looked over the menu together. Recalling it, something in the pit of her gut jostled, a feeling that made her uncomfortable for a few moments as she confronted it. Even now, as they walked, there was a warmth that radiated from him that kept drawing her closer -- they brushed arms a few times again, apologetically looking at each other each time. But neither seemed to mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a few blocks from the car park before Till stopped, ushering her inside the door of a fairly modern looking building. The windows facing the exterior were blacked out so she couldn’t see in, and what looked like a solid metal door swung open to greet her. Inside, the dimly lit corridor led to another door, guarded by a rather intimidating bouncer. She could hear the throbbing of club music from within the building, the hint of bright lights beneath the bottom of the second door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till nodded at the bouncer, who immediately pressed the bar on the heavy security bar to open it and allow them in. Once inside, Sabine was greeted by a fairly modern club space, a dark-coloured dance floor illuminated by flashing lights and strobes. The large bar off to one side was a neon dream, a vapour wave ambiance lighting the surface and the walls behind it, where rows upon row of alcohol sat waiting to be poured. The music had the same retro feel - though it was modern, retrowave/synthwave style, and a nice change to the normal club music she would’ve expected to hear in such a venue. The dance floor was tightly packed with the young and hip, the live DJ riling the crowd up with the latest mixes in the genre.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt Till’s hand on her waist, directing her away from the dance floor and over in the direction of the bar. Instead of stopping to get a drink (which she was desperately hoping for, given the afternoon + evening she’d started with). The gesture of touch was mostly because there was no way she would ever hear him over the throbbing bass and loud synths, but something about it caused an electric pulse to flare beneath his fingers, sending a shockwave through her body. The feeling caught her by surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They moved to a flight of stairs off behind the bar - one she hadn’t even originally been able to see for all the lights and the distraction of sensory overload. It was a narrow, spiral flight of stairs that led to an upper floor, and as they reached the top they were greeted by private tables set back from a ledge overlooking the floor below. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till led her to a table towards the back, where a large panoramic window opened up onto the waterway below. This glass, too, was heavily tinted and only able to be viewed through one way -- for privacy and ambiance, she supposed. He gestured to her to slide into the half-moon booth first, lowering his large frame after she did and sliding in next to her. They sat a few feet apart at the apex of the bend, Sabine’s eyes wide as she took in the neon lights and absorbed the atmosphere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was not what I was expecting,” She said, a bit dazzled by it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till laughed, grabbing the drinks menu that was placed on the table and passing it to Sabine.  “This is one of my favourites in this city. These private booths are nice, and the selection is quite good. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ahh, hallo,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A waitress approached them, her short skirt dancing well above the top of her knees and her dark leather top not leaving a lot to her imagination. Sabine watched as the other woman leaned in close to Till’s side of the table, cleavage like an open invitation, asking what he wanted to drink. She fought herself from rolling her eyes outwardly - the girl was working for her tips, but that was a bit much, no? - keeping her attention on the alcohol list while Till ordered some top-shelf vodka that probably cost a few hundred Euro a bottle. When the waitress turned her attention to her, Sabine looked up, quickly ordering a lower-range gin and tonic without too much thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No pina colada, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Schatzi</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Till jabbed as the waitress left, Sabine rolling her eyes at him calling her a pet name like “treasure”. She wasn’t sure if he’d meant to say it more under his breath - the music was quieter up on the private tier, but he was still having to talk at a decent volume for her to hear him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This place is a bit too fancy for that, don’t you think?” She retorted, placing the alcohol menu down and leaning her forearms on the tabletop with a smirk, “Or, were you too distracted by our fair </span>
  <em>
    <span>frauline </span>
  </em>
  <span>and her….assets….to remember that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She swore she saw Till’s cheeks flush faintly underneath the neon lights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you often have scantily-clad women just about shoving their chests into your face?” She was teasing, but catching him off-guard was moderately entertaining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilted his head to the side slightly, scratching the stubble on his chin. He grinned with mischief in his eyes, “No comment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine let out a hearty laugh. “Not sure that counts when the whole night is off-the-record to begin with, Till.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He responded with a simple wink as their drinks arrived, the well-endowed waitress placing them on the table with well-rehearsed swiftness before asking if they needed anything else. Till dismissed her with a friendly German no thank you, and the girl sashayed away with swaying curves in the darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Sabine had a flash of jealousy. She chastised herself for the very thought - this wasn’t anything more than two acquaintances going out for a few drinks and some good conversation. She wasn’t going to let that feeling in the pit of her stomach turn into something else and fester. That wouldn’t be professional. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheers,” Till pulled her from her thoughts with a raised glass. She reflected the gesture and clinked her drink against his before taking a satisfying sip of the old faithful G+T, letting out a sigh as she set the glass down in front of her and looked out into the neon abyss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sabine?” Till asked after she had stared off into space for a few moments, “Can I ask you a question now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She curled her hands around her glass and tapped her nails against the outside, “Sure. What?” Anxiety briefly fluttered across her mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleared his throat, “What can I call you, other than Sabine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paused for a moment. Like, a nickname? “Well you already called me </span>
  <em>
    <span>treasure</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” She laughed, taking another drink, “But Sab works. That’s what my friends and family call me, and I’m just fine with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till smiled, raising his glass to her again before downing some more vodka. “Sab it is then.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks again everyone for your kudos! Sorry for the delay on this chapter. Writers block sucks and I’ve been exploring some other fandoms and story ideas on the side 🙃</p><p>I’m now on tumblr and will be posting fic-related stuff there — you can hit me up at souvereign.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It felt like brief minutes that they sat there and talked, but really a few hours passed - the busty waitress continually refilling their drinks and mixing it up as required. Sabine finally switched to a more top-shelf gin at Till’s instance, and the social lubrication provided by a fair amount of alcohol allowed the conversation to open up further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Sabine asked, leaning closer to Till to close the gap between them a few more inches. “What </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> pissing you off when you called me today? You ready to tell me that ‘long story’ yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffed, finishing another vodka and pushing the glass towards the end of the table. The waitress walked by and looked over, Till pointing to the glass with a thumbs up and a smile. She immediately came and took the empty glass off the table and went to grab him another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he began, relaxing into the back of the booth seat and putting one arm up over the back of it - if she’d been sitting much closer, it would’ve been around her. “Let’s just say not everyone agrees with me choosing to spend time with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine’s head tilted slightly as she pressed him, “Go on.” Her gaze narrowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till swirled his glass of vodka, watching for a few moments as the legs of the alcohol trailed down the sides of the tumbler. “We tend to talk about a lot of things as a band,” His eyes didn’t leave the liquid, a hint of reservation in his words, “And it just so happens this morning you were the topic of conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She straightened in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable, shifting until her back was flat against the leather backrest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richard isn’t bothered,” Till continued with a shrug, “He thinks you’re honest, and that you’ll keep your word about what’s off the record and what isn’t. The others…..are not so convinced. They’re worried that I’m spending too much time with a journalist and that it will turn out poorly for all of us, especially me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do they not trust me?” Sabine asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It's not that they don’t trust </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” He said, taking a long drink of vodka as if it was required to carry on the conversation further, “It’s more the idea of journalists in general. We haven’t always had the best press, and we are very protective of our reputation that way. I understand why they’re concerned, though I can’t say I share that concern.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine sighed, biting the inside of her cheek while she debated asking further questions. Fuck it, might as well. “Till, do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> trust me, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His pale eyes softened. “As I said, I’m not worried. I trust you,” His gaze came off his drink and met with hers, “It is ridiculous, as we hardly know each other, but I always trust my instinct.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine felt the haze of alcohol beginning to hit her, liberating her words. “And it made you mad that they felt that way?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was very frustrated,” Till said, “There’s some tension between us right now. But we’ll sort it.” He paused, hesitating again, taking a long drawn-out breath before continuing. “To be perfectly honest, I skipped out on a band dinner to come out with you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she hadn’t been conscious of it she probably would have stopped breathing - in fact, she nearly choked on her drink as he spoke. Why would he do that, to spend time with </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>? She was nothing but a journalist who had spent a few nice hours with him and taken the pressure off a normal interview - it was clear they enjoyed each other's' company, but was it worth pissing off his bandmates to spend time with her outside the context of their respective jobs?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Till,” Sabine began, raising a hand in a questioning gesture, “Why would you do that for me? I don’t want to create tension for you guys…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughed at her, “I told you. I like spending time with you. What’s wrong with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something flipped in the pit of her stomach, a heat growing. With the veil of shyness lifted by alcohol she was feeling rather emboldened - she ENJOYED spending time with him too, and as much as she was loathe to admit it, she was also undeniably attracted to the older man. She’d strived to not let that feeling bubble to the surface but it was hard not to now; he sat almost directly beside her with an honest expression and had given her no reason thus far to believe that Eric’s words of warning had been true. Admittedly, the buzz she was riding didn’t help much with keeping her own feelings and emotions at bay, but it felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> to not worry and to just enjoy the conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” She said, “At least, with this much gin on board I’m not going to argue with you about the merits of professional boundaries.” Sabine’s face flushed bright red and she shuffled closer to him, so her side was pressed against his torso. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Till’s body stiffened against her closeness for a few moments before relaxing again, his arm around the back of the bench lowering to close around her shoulders. “Professional boundaries be damned,” An intoxicated smirk crossed his face. “I’ll take pissing them off to have a night of normalcy with someone who treats me like a regular person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You deserve it,” She elbowed him gently and he squeezed her shoulders. They let a silence sit between them briefly, letting the throbbing bass keep time as the song changed. It wasn’t awkward silence this time, though - it was more an expression of peace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Till?” Sabine asked, tilting her chin to look up at him - seated, his torso rose quite a bit higher than hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked back at her, having been focused on the lights of the club, “Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you dance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pierced brow cocked as he let out a deep laugh, “You’ve seen me on stage. You know the extent of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes at him. “Not like that,” Shaking her head, Sabine gestured towards the balcony ledge and the floor below. “Like that. Down there. Or are you bound by age to only be a dad dancer and on-stage hip-thruster?” She smirked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you asking me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>dance</span>
  </em>
  <span> with you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Frau </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connelly?” She was met with the quizzical brow again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mockingly, Sabine brought her fingers to her chin, stroking a fake beard. “I suppose I am, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Herr </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lindemann.” She downed the rest of her drink. “Or do you need another three bottles of vodka for that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A devious smirk crossed his face, his eyes intensifying as he met her gaze again. “You might be surprised to know that I would have said yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>without</span>
  </em>
  <span> any vodka,” He released his arm from around her shoulder and began to slide his way out of the boot. “Let’s go, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-------------</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In 90% of circumstances she would find this dance floor complete sensory overload - the neon decorating the entire club was bright, and barely offset by the flashing lights and strobes that illuminated the dancefloor. The DJ would occasionally set off a smoke machine to fill even more ambiance, and as they descended the stairs to the main level the throbbing of the bass became even louder and more intense. Every note pulsed in her veins, sending adrenaline coursing through her system - or was that something else?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The song was changing as Till led her towards a crowded part of the dance floor, weaving the two of them into the crowd and disappearing into the throng. The beat drove even harder now, and the gin electrified her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine began to flow with the music, her mind quickly forgetting the company she was in. It was a nice break, and she revelled in the carelessness of it all. For the first time in a while she allowed herself to let loose, the intoxication lubricating her movement, and Till had no issues keeping up with the rhythm of the music or her enthusiasm. The older man surprised her - sure, he was musical and had spent a lifetime as a professional musician, but that didn’t mean he could dance out of the context of a joking on-stage routine. But he did it, and he did it </span>
  <em>
    <span>well</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She outstretched one arm and placed a hand against his shoulder, not wanting to get lost in the sea of people but also craving matching her energy with his. They both had big, stupid grins plastered across their faces as they just enjoyed not having to carry a conversation and simply living in the moment, the electrical feeling she’d felt through her skin jolting every time he reached out and placed a hand against her hip to keep them together or just for the sake of experiencing the contact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As time passed and the song shifted again into another, Till took her by the waist and pulled her closer, putting his mouth next to her ear so she could hear him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want another gin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grinned and nodded, and without another word he slipped away towards the bar to fetch a drink, leaving her alone in a sea of people. In most other times this would’ve been awkward, but she was too drunk for that - she smiled at a few women who looked to be around her age nearby, and they happily obliged opening their space to let her join them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a few minutes before she felt a warm body behind her, startling her for a few seconds before realizing it was Till. He passed her another gin and tonic, his hand snaking around her waist from behind once it was free from carrying the drink. She turned around from within his grasp to face him, their bodies now moving against each other to the music, a friction and heat building within her the longer the enigmatic man ignored the world and kept her at the centre of his attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drank deeply from the gin he’d brought, heat from the dancing building a thin layer of sweat on her skin. She should have stopped drinking a long time ago and moved to water - she SHOULD have said no when Till had offered to grab her another drink. But no - she was enjoying the liberation of it all far too much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For too long had she let herself get caught in the perpetual cycle of living to work - if she wasn’t physically at work or conducting an interview she was either drafting something or performing research. She never stopped. Her life had been work and she had forgotten about just letting loose and doing anything along the lines of “self care”; sure, she travelled the world for her job, but when was the last time she had actually gone and spent time away from the stresses of her next big piece?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter right now that she was drunk and dancing with the subject of her latest long-format assignment. That wasn’t why they were here - they weren’t journalist and subject in this context, just human to human. Did Till feel the same thing, too? The liberation of -forgetting- their day to day?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sabine hadn’t realized that they had come even closer together as the music droned on. Her face was now close against his neck - he could feel her breath against his skin, and she occasionally felt a graze from his stubble against her forehead and brow. He smelt characteristically earthy, like sandalwood and patchouli. A whole new level of heat came over her spreading from her core all the way to the crown of her head - intoxication of another kind, mixed with plenty of top-shelf liquor. She downed the rest of the drink, placing the empty glass on the tray of a server who was moving through the crowd. Till quickly did the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was on drunken autopilot now. One hand snaked up against the back of Till’s head, finding the hair amongst the shaved Mohawk sides, tilting her head up to meet him and lock eyes. He gripped her waist tightly, and she felt his body relax into her, a grin painting her lips as their gazes met. Till didn’t stop her as she trailed her other hand down his chest then across his hip, stopping to rest on the very top of his ass and giving the muscle a quick squeeze. He took one hand off her waist and took her chin gently between his strong fingers, tilting her face closer to his, before pressing his forehead against hers as an open invitation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was going to let </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>make the real first move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand she had against the back of his neck moved into his hair, which had long since been taken out of the small ponytail he kept the Mohawk tidy with, and pulled his face to hers, pressing her lips tightly against his. He tasted like vodka and spice, taking her kiss eagerly, both of them with parted lips and wandering tongues jostling to explore each other on the dance floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was so hungry for him - and he for her. The energy swelled within her as they connected physically and shared ragged breaths, breaking their lip lock after what felt like an eternity to catch some air. Her eagerness to taste him again was short lived, as a sudden shockwave of nausea and sweat overwhelmed her and caused her to lose her footing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing she remembered was a pair of strong arms catching her before she hit the wooden floor, her vision blurring over and mind losing grip with the world around her. </span>
</p>
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